


Hive Mind

by airynothing, belovedmuerto, HiddenLacuna, honeybee221b, lifeonmars, moonblossom, orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Crack, F/M, Finished, M/M, Multi, Round Robin, Sex Pollen, The Fellowship of the Sex Bees, Warning: makes no sense, dubcon, sex bees
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-03
Updated: 2012-09-05
Packaged: 2017-11-11 08:26:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/476575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/airynothing/pseuds/airynothing, https://archiveofourown.org/users/belovedmuerto/pseuds/belovedmuerto, https://archiveofourown.org/users/HiddenLacuna/pseuds/HiddenLacuna, https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeybee221b/pseuds/honeybee221b, https://archiveofourown.org/users/lifeonmars/pseuds/lifeonmars, https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So, a bunch of us were chatting about doing a round robin. Uh, this is what happened. If you're here for plot... you might not be in the right place. Our requirements include: sex pollen, sex bees (and sex bee stings!), and Moriarty, who is working on a nude bomb.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Each chapter is written by a different person, and is to be a thousand words long. There are eight of us. You're getting eight thousand words of crack, folks.
> 
> Chapter 1 is by belovedmuerto.

Jim Moriarty’s creepy, gleeful cackle echoes through the warehouse-cum-lair, and his favorite henchman finds himself smiling in response. Hearing Jim sound so well-pleased with himself usually means one of a few things:  
a) a plan is coming together;  
b) someone has danced at the end of their puppet strings in a most edifying manner; or  
c) people are about to die in creative ways.

The longer the cackle lasts, the more creative those ways are. And Jim prides himself on the creativity of his crimes (not that he generally commits them himself, mind). Jim Moriarty’s cackle is rather legendary, amongst those lucky enough to have survived his employ.

“Seb, get in here!” Jim calls. He sounds utterly pleased with himself.

Sebastian Moran sets down the rifle stock he’s been cleaning and polishing (Daisy, thus named for his first professional kill) and gets to his feet.

“Coming, boss.”

Jim likes it when Seb calls him boss.

Except in bed, that is.

“What’s up, boss?” he asks as he saunters into the other room.

Jim is in inventing mode, wearing a leather (probably lead-lined) apron and a welding mask, upturned over his face. He grins at Seb and flips the mask down before hitting the switch he’s holding.

 Seb gasps at the wave of pleasure that rockets through him, making his cock twitch in anticipation. He may or may not moan wantonly, unbidden, untouched.

Jim swears, “Fuck!” He tears off the mask and the apron, throwing them away in disgust, still cursing. The mask makes a resounding crash when it hits--something, probably dangerous and breakable--on the other side of the workshop. Jim turns from the mess and gives Seb a raised eyebrow assessment.

Seb looks down at himself. His clothes have all disappeared, except his pants and socks.

“Gold lamé, Seb?”

“We were gonna go to that Rocky Horror screening later, boss. You like it when I dress like Rocky for those.”

“You’re not wrong,” Jim mutters, mostly to himself.

“What’re you working on, boss?” Seb ventures. He doesn’t bother trying to cover himself, or to hide the fact that he’s half hard.

“Nude bomb,” the evil mastermind replies, as if that answers any possible questions Seb might have. “Obviously it’s not ready yet, or you’d be much more naked and aroused.”

“I can fix that for you, if you’d like.” Seb starts removing his socks, grinning.

Jim grins back. “Upstairs to the office. Now.”

\----

Sherlock is hard at work on an experiment when John comes downstairs that fateful morning. He appears to be very carefully dissecting something tiny, and John averts his gaze. He has no desire to see science in action, especially considering dissection means there’s a chance it’ll kill his appetite.

A small chance, sure, he *is* a doctor, but he’s not on call and it’s half bloody seven in the morning and Sherlock has an uncanny knack for doing things that kill his appetite. He’s learned that lesson the hard way. A man deserves an entrails-free breakfast, doesn’t he?

He doesn’t, however, fail to notice his flatmate. John always notices Sherlock. He’s fairly certain that he’d notice Sherlock first in the middle of Paddington Station during the morning rush. When he’s feeling fanciful, he sometimes allows himself to consider Sherlock his lodestone.

“Tea?” John asks as he fills the kettle with enough water for two cups.

“Yes, please,” Sherlock murmurs absently, not looking up from his delicate dissection.

“Breakfast?”

Sherlock shrugs. “If you’re making something.” He still doesn’t look up.

John makes them a quick breakfast. By the time the eggs are ready, Sherlock has set aside the dissection. John can’t help noticing it now, sat right in the middle of the table; it’s a bee. That’s not so bad.

“A bee?”

“Obviously,” Sherlock replies, taking a bite of his toast, making an approving hum at the amount of jam John used.

“Why are you dissecting a bee?” John asks; it’s a risk even asking about it, but he’s almost always curious about Sherlock’s experiments.

Sherlock waves off the question like it’s unimportant. “I can’t tell from the dissection, but I think they’ve been genetically engineered.” 

“Genetically engineered bees?”

“Mmm.” Sherlock disappears into his head.

John watches him think for a few minutes, then grabs the paper and spends the rest of the breakfast reading about the Olympics. After he’s eaten, he clears the table, showers, and gets dressed.

“I’m going for a walk,” he tells the still thinking Sherlock before he leaves.

\----

Sherlock catches up to him in Regent’s Park, drags him all over its vast expanse in search of more bees. Eventually Sherlock finds them, a small hive in a tree, buzzing with activity, bees coming and going.

He stands watching for several long minutes. John stands beside him, mostly watching Sherlock. He doesn’t notice the bees floating around them until one of them stings him, on the back of his neck.

“Son of a bitch!” John shouts, slapping at the spot where the bee had stung him. The bee drops to the ground and Sherlock crouches to pick up the insect.

“All right?” Sherlock asks as he straightens back to his full height. He looks at John with concern. “You aren’t allergic--Ow!”

Another bee has stung Sherlock. He immediately drops to the ground, pawing at the grass looking for the insect and adding it to the one that had stung John.

“Come on, John!” And he takes off running in the direction of home.

By the time they get there, John is slightly out of breath, and Sherlock’s muttered dialogue-to-self has taken an odd turn. It’s as though his internal dialogue has become external. Every thought, every calculation, every leap of logic and deduction, all given voice, though he seems to be trying to keep his voice down.

John is fascinated by how many of them seem to involve him.

Not that he’s doing much better. His mind has been on one track for a while now, and that track is Sherlock.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2: by [lifeonmars](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lifeonmars/)

Jim Moriarty is in a far, far better mood than he was this morning.  
  
"Clothes on, sweetheart," he croons to Moran. "Let's try it again."  
  
Seb scowls. He's hot and flustered, and his shirt now needs ironing. And the blowjob Jim promised him half an hour ago has yet to materialize.  
  
Seb steps into his trousers. "How many more times -- "  
  
"Just once more." Jim holds up a finger, then giggles, adds another. "Or twice." He loosens his tie, cracks his neck to the side.  
  
"Fuck you," Seb mutters.  
  
"Soon, soon." Jim busies himself with the object at his desk, a battered metal box that looks more like a primary school science project than anything else. He turns to watch Seb button the last of his shirt buttons and grins.  
  
"On three. One, two..."  
  
Jim flips a switch on the box. The air shimmers between them, and suddenly Sebastian Moran is stark naked, cock throbbing and very erect.  
  
"Jesus," Seb moans. "I think it's bloody well _working_."  
  
Jim cackles, shrugs off his heavy apron. "Right. I think it's ready for prime-time, sweetheart."  
  
"So am I," Seb says, reaching for Jim greedily.  
  
Jim swats his hand away. "Not quite finished," he sing-songs. "Must wrap our little care package for Scotland Yard."  
  
"You're sending this to the Yard?"  
  
"Not sending. You're delivering, love. More personal that way."  
  
Seb huffs a laugh, takes Jim by the collar, crowds into him. "I can't simply walk into Scotland Yard."  
  
Jim's hand closes around Seb's erect cock. "You can, my dear." His nails dig in; Seb gasps. He hisses into Seb's ear. "I think you can."  
  
  
\- - -  
  
"Christ, you're in a mood," John says, rubbing the back of his neck. The sting is still bothering him an hour later, and he can't seem to shake the woozy feeling that settled in right about the time the bee sting did. "Why'd you shut yourself in your room?"  
  
Sherlock has just reappeared after an unexplained fit of solitude. He looks uncharacteristically flustered, holding his wrist at the site of his own bee sting. "I feel strange. Have you noticed -- I can't seem to stop talking? Your hair, you haven't had it cut in four weeks, you're due for a cut soon but I like it this way, I wish you'd leave it another week -- _Damn it_ _!_ "  
  
John raises an eyebrow. "You normally can't stop talking, Sherlock, how is this any different than usual?"  
  
And then, to John's surprise, words keep pouring out. He hears himself speak, but it's impossible to stop: "I don't mind, though, the sound of your voice, it's so unbelievably deep, you can keep right on talking, some days I just want to listen to your voice and nothing else, because it makes me think about -- " John gives a strangled yelp and claps a hand over his mouth.  
  
"Do you see?" Sherlock says, holding out his wrist. "The bee stings, John, we're having some sort of reaction, I was just recording my own voice for the past twenty minutes to make sure I wasn't imagining things, I can't stop saying every word I'm thinking, and you were here in the sitting room mumbling nonsense the entire time, I couldn't catch every word but you were definitely _talking_."  
  
"I was talking to myself? Hell, I've been worried about cracking ever since I got back from Afghanistan but -- "  
  
"Not that I mind knowing what you're thinking, I think it might be terribly fascinating, although I'd like to pretend I'm not interested, but we should really address the problem of the bees -- "  
  
"These have to be the genetically engineered bees," John says, trying to control the wave of words that are fighting to get out past his lips. "You got us stung by some sort of top secret Baskerville demon insect, of course you did. It's a good thing you're so gorgeous when you look at me like that --"  
  
Sherlock's eyebrows are arched high. "We've got to go back to the park, John, we've got to find the hive," he says, and: "But I'd rather stay here in the flat, I'm terribly interested in removing your shirt and studying the various textures of your skin with my lips."  
  
John inhales sharply, stands up. "Yes, back to the park before anyone else gets stung, of course." Sherlock looks frantic -- struggling against more words, perhaps?-- but John is babbling again. "You'd better let me look at that sting, Sherlock, make sure it's all right -- give me your wrist, best thing to do under the circumstances, don't you think?"  
  
"Mmmm," Sherlock breathes in agreement, holding out his wrist compliantly as John takes it in his hand, runs his fingers over it.  
  
"God." John traces the raised, red sting; he feels Sherlock shudder a sigh. "This was such a transparent excuse to touch you, Sherlock, sorry, I couldn't help myself --"  
  
"Don't apologise, John, you idiot." Sherlock steps close, bending over John’s shoulder as John's heart thumps like a drum. "I'm about to make the same feeble excuse to examine the back of your neck, the sting doesn’t concern me, but if I pretend to study it I'll be in the perfect position to do this --"  
  
Sherlock's lips brush the back of John's neck; every hair on John's body stands up. A moan of pleasure vibrates between them, and it might be Sherlock, but it's impossible to tell.  
  
The phone in Sherlock's pocket rings.  
  
"Christ!" Sherlock growls, fumbling for it, pressing it to his ear. "Busy snogging John, can this wait?"  
  
A cough on the line. Lestrade. "Er, Sherlock? We need you down at the Yard. Someone's left a package for you."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3 by ConsultingDepressive

The taxi ride to the Yard is unbearable. John can't stop thinking about Sherlock's breath on his neck, what he might have done next, how it would have progressed. He mentally shakes himself, casually dropping his hand to his inner thigh to press on the erection that is rising. When he glances at Sherlock, Sherlock is looking back, eyes bright, licking his lips and rubbing his fingers on his trousers, back and forth, back and forth. "Hope you sort this out quickly," John says, his voice rough. He's having trouble concentrating.  
  
"Not _too_ quickly," Sherlock murmurs, "I'd very much like to..."  
  
"Scotland Yard, here you are!" the cabbie interrupts as John hastily thrusts money at him and gets out of the car, stumbling after Sherlock.  
  
They reach Lestrade's office and find him looking askance at a brown-paper wrapped package on his desk. "This was brought in by -- get this -- a bloke half-naked, wearing gold lamé pants and combat boots and a full hard-on. Bloody uncomfortable, that. I was about to ask him what he was on about, but he slipped out the door and..."  
  
"Yes, fine," Sherlock snaps, "It may be dangerous, shall I take it back with us?"  
  
Lestrade shrugs, grinning, "Dunno. It could be amusing, bloke dressed like that. Go ahead and use my office."  
  
"All right," Sherlock answers, "but give us privacy, I want to be alone with John."  
  
John feels himself blushing at Lestrade's cocked eyebrow, at the same time thinking what a good idea it is. Lestrade lets himself out and Sherlock begins to carefully unwrap the package. He snorts when he sees the misshapen metal box with a red button on top, picking it up and examining it.  
  
"Sherlock, what if that's a bomb?" John asks, furrowing his brow while simultaneously admiring Sherlock's long clever fingers and wondering what they'd taste like, feel like...  
  
"Nonsense," Sherlock scoffs, "it's some other crude device. Look at the thing." He holds it up for John's inspection, leaning far closer than necessary, licking his lips. "Do you want to touch it, John?"  
  
"Er, no, I'll leave that to you, I want _you_ to do it... I mean, no! No, it's okay," John is blushing again. What has gotten into him, into both of them?  
  
Sherlock turns the crude metal box around in his fingers, looking at it closely. "Obvious button, no obvious muzzle or pathway for a projectile, just a small glass-covered aperture." Sherlock looks up at him, shrugs, then presses the red button.  
  
John is suddenly naked, sporting a massive erection, and gasping. "Oh _god_ , Sherlock, what did you _do_?" He now wants nothing more than to launch himself at Sherlock, pinning him against Lestrade's desk and...  
  
"John," Sherlock whispers, "I think I've sorted out what it does." His breathing is rapid, skin glistening with sweat. "I have to... I need..." He slams the box down on the desk and grabs John, kissing him for all he's worth, grinding into John's hips.  
  
_ _ _  
  
"Soooo," Jim purrs as Seb walks in, "how did it go?"  
  
Seb is glaring at his boss, the look rather spoiled by his flamboyant attire, "I can't believe you fucking made me walk into Scotland Yard, wearing this, with a package for Holmes." He begins to stalk towards Jim, who is grinning.  
  
"Was it fun, Tiger? Did you like going in there like the cock-of-the-walk, all cheeky? Did you like knowing what was waiting for you at home?" He walks his fingers up Seb's arm and Seb growls, pinning Jim to the wall.  
  
"Enough. Fucking. Waiting." And Sebastian Moran suddenly has a mouthful of skin and a handful of cock and he listens to his madman of a boss giggle and gasp at the same time.  
  
"Oooooh," Jim breathes, "I can't wait to see what a mess it makes of the prissy Mr. Holmes..."  
  
_ _ _  
  
Sherlock's mouth is on John's, John's fists are in Sherlock's hair, and neither can tell who is moaning louder. Sherlock pulls back to latch his mouth onto John's neck and John gasps, "Fuck, _please_ , Sherlock." He reaches for Sherlock's hand, guiding it down to where John's cock is swollen and hot, moaning when Sherlock closes around him.  
  
He is thrusting into Sherlock's fist, gasping, biting down on Sherlock's neck when Sherlock pulls away. "No, _no_ , John, this isn't... isn't normal, we're having a reaction, and you..."  
  
"Fuck normal," John growls, "just fucking _touch me_." He runs his hand down Sherlock's body and finds Sherlock completely hard under his clothes. As John begins to unfasten Sherlock's trousers, Sherlock moans and pushes him away, stepping back.  
  
"Wait, just... wait a moment," he gasps, adjusting himself. John grits his teeth, cock throbbing, heart thundering in his chest as he drops a hand down to start stroking himself. Until Sherlock picks up the cup of cold coffee on Lestrade's chest and flings it at him.  
  
"Jesus, Sherlock!" John yelps, coffee running down his skin. He shakes his head for a moment and feels something straighten out a little from the shock of the cold liquid. He's still hard, still wants Sherlock, but he can rein it in. For the moment.  
  
"John, we aren't in our right minds. Clearly something in those bees' stings is affecting our... emotions."  
  
"Try _'libidos'_ ," John replies, dryly.  
  
"Whatever. In any case, it's making us irrational. And then this, this _box_ also clearly has an effect on whoever it is turned upon," he pauses to glance down at John's cock, taking a deep breath and licking his lips. "So, we need to find out what for and why.  Though I think the "who" is rather evident. Who else would do something this mad?" His lip curls for a moment, until he looks back at John's face and the desire still evident upon his face.

  
"What if isn't irrational?" John whispers. "What if it just brings to the forefront desires that were hidden?" He takes a step towards Sherlock, stalking him around the desk.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter by Moonblossom

"John, no. Don't start thinking that way." Sherlock had been wondering the same, but he's not ready to admit it. "If you do anything now, you'll regret it when this is all sorted out. And then everything will be awkward, and you'll leave. And I really, really don't want you to lea-" Sherlock bites down on his lip, stemming the flood of words.  
  
"Fuck it, Sherlock. I've wanted this for a long time." John's gaze darts from Sherlock's mouth to his eyes and back again before impulsively leaning up and kissing him again. "We'll talk about this when we're all sorted out." The relief on Sherlock's face is clear - if John's saying they'll talk about it, he obviously means it right now. At least there's no room for duplicity, whatever's wrong with them.  
  
John leans against the bare corner of Lestrade's desk, his legs spread in clear invitation. Sherlock's shoulders drop as he leans in between them, pinning John down to the desk. They both moan as Sherlock instinctively ruts his clothed erection against the soft skin of John's inner thigh.  
  
"Oh god, I'd beg you to fuck me right here on the desk if we had any damned lube." John's eyes go wide as he lets that slip. "I mean..."  
  
Sherlock swallows, running his tongue along his lower lip before leaning in to nip John's earlobe. "No, no, it's fine. I... I've been feeling the same way. I've actually been carrying around a bottle of lube for a while now. Before the bees, even. Just in case." He grimaces, clearly having said more than he meant to.  
  
"Oh, fuck it, Sherlock. I can't..." John's head drops as he wraps his hand around his throbbing, aching cock. Sherlock pulls the bottle from his pocket and fumbles with the half-done flies of his trousers and manages to get them down around his thighs, along with his pants. His erection bobs free, engorged and already glistening at the crown, and John lets out a sharp hiss.  
  
"Please, Sherlock. Please." He writhes, grinding against the desk. Sherlock slicks himself up with one hand, impatiently sliding two slippery fingers along the cleft of his arse.  
  
Somehow, despite their frenzy, Sherlock manages to restrain himself enough to slow down, to gently guide one finger inside of John. Spurred on by the way John is writhing and thrusting his hips, he slips in a second one, surprised at how easily it goes in.  
  
"I've..." John pants, rocking his hips in an attempt to pull Sherlock's fingers deeper into him as he strokes himself lightly. "Been practicing. Hoping. Maybe. Fuck. You're not the only one who's been wanting this for a while." He bites his lip, cheeks glowing bright red with combined arousal and embarrassment, and the grin Sherlock gives him is positively lascivious.  
  
"John Watson, you are constantly surprising me." Eagerly, he thrusts in a third finger, rocking his wrist gently and feeling John's ring of muscle stretch and relax. Still fucking John with his fingers, Sherlock leans down, licking a drop of perspiration that tastes faintly of stale coffee off John's sternum before biting gently.  
  
"I am going to fuck you now." Sherlock murmurs against the faintly stubbled skin of John's throat. "Going to fuck you so hard you scream and all the yarders hear you. Funny, I always imagined that sort of dirty talk would sound ridiculous but I can't stop."  
  
"Sherlock?" John's panting now, still stroking his prick.  
  
"Mmmm?" The question's more of a murmur, reverberating through John's collarbone.  
  
"Shut up and fuck me."  
  
"Yes, Captain." Sherlock smirks against John's throat before pulling away and lining himself up. Desperate now, John wraps his legs around Sherlock, attempting to pull him in closer. Sherlock gasps and gives in, sliding into John in one long, solid stroke. There will be a time to get to map each other out, a time for slow and thorough exploration, but now is not that time. Barely giving John time to adjust, to acclimatise, Sherlock slides out again, pulling away until just the head of his cock is inside John.  
  
John reaches up, sliding one hand under Sherlock's shirt, nails dragging across the soft, smooth flesh of his back. His other hand is still frantically stroking himself, slick with copious pre-come.  
  
"Christ, yeah, god. Sherlock. Fuck, keep going. So good, so good. Wanted you for so long. Want you. Still want you. Want more." John's babbling, but neither of them are sure how much is because of the sting and how much of it is something more. Right now, neither of them care.  
  
Sherlock runs one long hand over the flushed skin of John's torso, now thrusting slowly. "Wanted you too. Want all of you. Look at you. Look at your scar. So perfect. Fuck." He punctuates each murmured, broken phrase with a sharp thrust, driving his cock deeper and deeper into John, who whimpers in turn. It's not long before Sherlock gives in to temptation and starts fucking him in earnest, pounding furiously enough to cause John to slide further back onto the desk.  
  
If there's a knock at the door of Lestrade's office, John and Sherlock are too distracted to hear it.  
  
"Lads?" He barges in without waiting for a response, only to get an eyeful of the lush curve of Sherlock's arse, flushed and glowing, pistoning feverishly between John's bare legs. The moaning, hissing, and furious slap of flesh on flesh echo across the room, positively filthy.  
  
"OI! OFF MY DESK!" Lestrade's bellow carries across the office, loud enough to get John's attention. He releases his grip on his cock and leans back, hands scrabbling for purchase on the pile of documents and miscellaneous evidence piled up there. Sherlock pulls away, scowling and apparently uncaring of exposing his lurid erection, just in time for John to lean on the red button. The blast hits Lestrade full-on, leaving him suddenly exposed and painfully, shamefully aroused.  
  
Three throaty voices mutter, nearly in unison. "Oh, shit."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're not sure the AO3 notifications went out last night, so don't miss Chapter 4, by moonblossom!
> 
> This chapter is by roane.

Lestrade's knees threaten to buckle and he sags against the door to his office. Bloody _hell_ , he hasn't felt anything like this since... well, it's been a while. He groans and tries to stand up, his hands in fists at his sides to keep from stroking the painfully hard length of his cock. Even the air stirring in the room is enough to leave him gasping. Oh god, he wants nothing more than to—no, no, this is not acceptable behavior. His heart is hammering in his chest and it feels like every single hair on his body is standing on end. _Breathe, just breathe_.

Sherlock is still standing there like a bloody x-rated statue, and John—well, Lestrade doesn't want to know what John is doing behind Sherlock, but the sound doesn't leave much to the imagination. Lestrade takes another deep breath and says, "I said, off my desk. And if either of you so much as _looks_ at that damned box again I'm going to throw you in jail for indecent exposure."

John scrambles off the desk, but still is staying suspiciously close to Sherlock. And whatever he's doing now is making Sherlock's ears turn pink. Of course Sherlock arches an eyebrow at Lestrade. "If I might point out—"

"You may not." He turns around and sticks his head out of his office. "Donovan! Get me one of the forensic jumpsuits, yeah?" He glances back. "No wait, make that two. And for god's sake, _hurry_." He tries not to watch Donovan as she nods and darts across the office, because she's his subordinate and he really shouldn't have those thoughts, but oh my god, that arse, and _Anderson you stupidly lucky son of a bitch—_

He shakes his head hard to clear it. "Right." Lestrade turns back to see Sherlock and John in a clinch again, panting into each other's open mouths and humping each other's legs like dogs. "Jesus Christ. _Right_. Sherlock. That corner over there," he points. Then he points to the other corner. "John, over there. And don't even so much as look at each other." They obey, but Lestrade can practically see the tension stretching between them.

Donovan returns with the jumpsuits and opens her mouth. "Sir—?"

"Yes, I know," Greg says, "I promise we'll have an explanation soon. Get the evidence team in here. We're locking this ruddy thing up before it does any more damage." She turns to go, and he adds, "And Donovan: I want you to go around and make people delete the photos and videos off their mobiles, yeah? Word of this does not get out just because _somebody_ couldn't be arsed to pull the blinds on my windows before shagging in my _office_." He tosses John the extra jumpsuit and climbs into his own. "Sherlock, do you have any idea what the hell is going on here?"

Sherlock has at least pulled his trousers back into place, and John is wearing his jumpsuit, but Lestrade does not want to think about ever having to use his desk again. The ache in his groin is settling to a dull pain, the erection wilting slowly. "Well?" he repeats.

Sherlock clears his throat. "Well. It's obvious what the device does. I have three theories as to how, but I'm far too distracted by the thought of fucking John senseless right now to explain them to you."

"Okay," says Lestrade. "Let's start right there with the oversharing. The device didn't do that, because I'm not having that problem."

"He's right," John says.

"Yes, but you were affected in other ways," Sherlock says. "You were clearly resisting the urge to grope Sergeant Donovan's arse. Likely you were only able to resist joining John and me because you have hitherto evinced absolutely no interest in men, with the possible exception of my brother." Sherlock grimaces as if he has a bad taste in his mouth.

Lestrade scrubs at his forehead and is saved from responding by the arrival of the evidence team, who are each wearing full hazmat suits, for all the good that will do them. "Good," he says, feeling slightly more in control of himself now, "I want you to box that thing up and take it down to the lab. I want a full analysis by this evening." He snags one of the techs on her way out and leans down to whisper, "And for the love of god, have somebody give my desk a thorough cleaning and disinfecting, will you?"

He turns back to Sherlock, "So do you want to walk us through this?"

"No," Sherlock says. "I can still smell John's sex in here and that's all I care about right—" He manages to stop himself and has the good grace to look mortified.

"Out of my office," Lestrade says. "Both of you." He opens the door and gestures them out, following after the closing his office door. Maybe he can request an office change. Or at least a new desk.

"Now," he says, "I want you to explain to me why a half-naked man brought a box that makes people's clothes disappear into my squad room, and I want to know why it had your name on it."

"It's obvious, isn't it?" says Sherlock, regaining a bit of his haughty demeanor, although Lestrade doesn't miss the way his eyes keep darting towards John. "Someone wanted to cause chaos in the Yard. No doubt they expected that their device would wreak much more havoc than it has—quite likely in an attempt to distract your officers from something else taking place. Were I you, Inspector, I'd check in with my dispatchers, right away. If this were my plan, there would be a crime spree in progress, even as we speak."

As if on cue, phones on desks everywhere start to ring.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter by airynothing.

Mycroft knows when Anne (Antemnestra today) discreetly enters his office three and a half minutes early that something ... unseemly ... has happened with his brother. She hands him the Class B Minor Emergency Blackberry, and at his minute signal to speak, she says "The picture and video texts on the screen were intercepted from various mobiles at New Scotland Yard. None reached their destinations and all have been wiped from the originating devices."

Mycroft flips quickly through the images, raises an eyebrow, and Antemnestra says "The report detailing your brother's movements over the past 24 hours," and produces a sheaf of papers from nowhere.

He glances over the first two pages, which consist of timestamped GPS data from John's phone. Sherlock has been in the habit of disabling the GPS capabilities on his own phones ever since he first noticed a discrepancy between the GPS map data and the actual conditions of London, early in his teens. John, Mycroft knows, has demanded that his phones' GPS capabilities remain intact, on the grounds that he hasn't got an internal GPS in his head like a mad detective genius.

Mycroft can see their rate and direction of travel plainly laid out by the numbers. A note at the top of the page states that John (and his phone) were never farther than five feet from Sherlock during the interval surveyed. Mycroft can see where the two of them hesitated, sped up, waited, travelled aimlessly or with purpose. And he can see that the tale told by the numbers before Regent's Park is different in quality from that shown afterward.

He estimates the position of the relevant surveillance photos and flips unerringly to the one he wants in the stack of paper. "Have that hive of bees collected," he says, pointing to a tree near the indistinct forms of Sherlock and John in the picture. Antemnestra nods and exits, typing on the Class G Operational Coordination Blackberry, one of five that she keeps, improbably, tucked somewhere on her person at all times. 

\- - -

Lestrade has Donovan talking at one of his ears and Collins at the other, each sure that their own emergency is the most urgent; his own cock insisting that _its_ emergency is by far more urgent than either; three blinking lights on the sergeant's phone he's had his desk phone forwarded to; and he's pretty sure that John and Sherlock are having an argument using only their eyes behind his back, the topic of which seems to be in which direction they should sneak off for a quickie. At least they're not oversharing anymore. That disturbing effect seems to have worn off.

\- - -

Seb's day is rapidly improving. He's finally been given the go-ahead to lose the damned gold lamé pants. Jim is letting him top for once, and even knowing that his psychotic genius boyfriend just wants his hands and eyes free for scrolling through the input from his massive surveillance complex doesn't quite ruin Seb's enjoyment of that arse.

Then Jim squeals -- not because of anything Seb's done, of course not -- and clicks on an audio feed timestamped five minutes ago. Seb recognizes the voices. Damn. Can’t even fuck the boss without that bastard Holmes coming into it.

He begins to thrust more urgently, partly in a petty attempt to get Jim's attention, but mostly because he has a feeling he won't have much more time. He's not happy to be proven right. Jim's back stiffens, and he starts babbling about mutant bee stings and Regent's Park, and apparently that's where they're off to now. Seb looks down at his newly Jimless cock, sighs, and goes in search of backup clothing.

Behind them, the audio feed is now echoing the nasal tones of Anderson, recorded as the box they'd given Sherlock via New Scotland Yard reached its destination in Forensics.

\- - -

John feels like he's coming down off of something. Several somethings, maybe. He's pretty sure Sherlock's increasingly peremptory and irritated glances translate to "John, the supply room, just around the corner, what are you waiting for?" and he's been trying to convey via his intent stare, lowered eyebrows, clenched jaw, and slightly tilted head his own message of "You, me, home, food, sleep, talk later."

But then the increasing chaos around Lestrade's jumpsuit-clad form finally pulls him away in an eddy of New Scotland Yard's finest, and Sherlock gets his wish. Which is indeed the supply room, but not for the reason John thought. It seems the effects are wearing off of Sherlock as well.

"John, we need bees."

John's forehead finds his hand. "Sherlock. We need food, rest, clothing--"

"I have clothing."

"-- _I_ need clothing, and we need to sleep--"

"You're repeating yourself, John, rest _and_ sleep? We need neither, we have a case! Bees, John, we're going back to Regent's Park, the bees are _crucial_!" Sherlock swirls toward the door, evidently done with words and ready for action.

John catches his elbow and holds him back. "Sherlock. This-- we've-- it's been--"

Sherlock shakes free and snaps, "Come to the _point_ , John, _if_ you have one."

John stares at him and then breaks into giggles. After a moment, Sherlock follows. When they're good and out of breath, John gasps, "I think you've seen my point quite enough for today." 

Sherlock muses, "Yes, yes, it's a very nice point.”

John says, “We really don’t need the bees, Sherlock.”

Sherlock's eyebrows draw together and he says, "Not for ourselves, John. Those bees are our advantage! Moriarty has the Nude Beam, but we've got, ah, Truth Bees."

"Not Sex Bees?"

"I think the truth serum effect will be far more useful on Moriarty and his agents than the sexual excitation effects, don't you?"

\- - -

In Regent’s Park, a bee returns to its hive with news for its hivemates about the new flowers it’s found. The pollen clinging to its legs has no effect on its own nonexistent libido, but then it is an insect, and a worker besides.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter by [honeybee221b](http://archiveofourown.org/users/honeybee221b)

“Sherlock, don’t you think we need some protection?” John asks as the cab speeds towards Regent’s Park.

  
“That seems a bit like closing the barn door after the horse has been thoroughly fucked on a desk, wouldn’t you say?” Sherlock replies with a raised eyebrow and a quirked lip.

  
“Sherlock!” John colours as the cabbie coughs discreetly into his fist and definitely does not look in the rearview mirror. John lowers his voice and pulls Sherlock down by the collar.

  
“I wouldn’t say THOROUGHLY, cheeky,” he hisses in Sherlock’s ear and then releases the coat. “And I didn’t mean – I meant because of the bees. We need suits and those hats with the netting,” John makes big gestures around his face. John wishes Sherlock would stop looking at him like that. The uncontrollable urge to hump him has, thankfully, subsided, but he still is Sherlock effing Holmes, for christssake, and John is very conscious of the fact that neither Sherlock nor he had come. He makes a note to thank Lestrade for that – possibly with a cup of coffee prepared by that barista who perpetually had a finger up one nostril. This vengeful line of thought is interrupted by Sherlock’s long, slender neck. That damn neck is always interrupting him. And also the verbose Cupid’s bow, still slightly pinker than normal, which has not a little bit to say about how much it would like to be on John’s cock.

  
“At the very least, we’ll need some smoke and something to transport the bees in,” Sherlock says, forcing John back to the case. Sherlock hides a smile and turns toward the front to give the cabbie new directions. As he leans back, he hits a few buttons on his phone. With his other hand, he lightly strokes John’s thigh, a reward for a good idea. The swelling under John’s slacks and the look on his face that says ‘I very much need to be fucked by a ruddy genius, but quick’? That’s Sherlock’s reward for – well, for being a ruddy genius, he thinks to himself smugly. And he plans to. But first, bees.

  
“Molly,” Sherlock says into his mobile. “I need your help.”

  


  
===

  
“Sir, I think it’s best if you come with us,” Anne (Antemnestra, Mycroft corrected himself) says from the doorway. “Ivan says your brother is speeding through the park trailing smoke and John and Molly Hooper are struggling behind, carrying what appears to be beekeeping equipment.”

  
Mycroft sighs. With the whole Syria mess and now domestic tensions ramping up again, he seriously does not have time for this. He looks at Antemnestra in her work kit, a slinky black dress that hugs all her yummy curves. Better than devil’s food, that one. On her feet are three-inch heels with shiny metal toes – the memory of being on the pointy end of those shoes makes his cock twitch. A trip to the park might not be so bad. Maybe they could find a nice, private place, after. When she had been Anthea, she’d been a vigorous proponent of public sex. He wonders what Antemnestra is in favour of. He sends a quick note to the boys to turn off surveillance in Regent’s Park and walks to the door.

  
===

  
“What about me?” Molly asks tentatively, watching John and Sherlock don the white jackets, hats and veils. Sherlock clearly hasn’t remembered that she’s there, despite the fact that it had been she who had quickly procured the beekeeping equipment from a friend with a hive in his back garden. “Oh, just stand back, you should be fine,” Sherlock tells her, picking up the smoker.

  
===

  
Lestrade, still in his jumpsuit, stands on a chair and whistles through two fingers. The controlled chaos in the bullpen stops. He can see Sally and Anderson in the mix – Anderson in a matching jumpsuit, thanks to a slip while tending to the sex bomb in the lab. Lestrade has seen the pictures snapped by a quick lab tech – much more of the little man (tiny, really) than he ever intended.

  
“Right,” he says, the slightly confused look on his face tempered by determination. “I don’t know what the hell is going on, but we so far have calls coming in regarding a yellow powder at Waterloo and Paddington stations, Heathrow airport and King’s Cross –“

  
His orders are interrupted by his mobile. A glance at the screen and the throb in his crotch is suddenly back with a vengeance. He really should get on with it, but just the words “Molly Hooper” on the screen makes it suddenly a bit dangerous for him to be standing on an office chair … ngh. God, he hasn’t been led around by his balls so much since Year 10.

  
He hops down and answers the call.

  
“Molly.”

  
“Greg, it’s Molly,” Molly says. “Oh, yes, you know that. You said my name,” she says, with a breathless giggle. “So sorry, I’m just a bit – um, we might need your help here.”

  
“Who’s ‘we’ and where’s ‘here’?” Greg asks. Molly is breathing quite heavily and Greg’s breathing ticks up a notch in response. It ticks up once more when she tells him.

  
===

  
Sherlock pumps smoke into the crack in the tree and reaches for the wooden box at his feet.

  
John warily watches from a few steps away as the bees seem to slow for a bit, their buzzing around the opening in the trunk becoming lazy. The buzz in the air, however, gets louder, as does the far-off sound of sirens.

  
“Sherlock,” interrupts a silky voice from behind them both, “you know that honey comes in little plastic bears at any market in London. Much easier, wouldn’t you say?”   
Sherlock spins to face Mycroft, not-Anthea and a couple of nameless black-suited spooks.

  
Before either of them can speak, John’s focus is drawn to two shapes coming through the copse of trees towards them. A high-pitched giggle floats through the dim woods.

  
“Oh, HON-nneee, I’m home!”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter by HiddenLacuna.
> 
>  
> 
> _Warnings for dubcon... it's sex pollen crack, but be ye warned._

“Hello, sexy,” Jim calls, sweetly. He rubs at his expensive trousers, a hard line clearly visible through the cloth. “Seb, I told you they’d be lonely without us. Captain Watson, meet Colonel Moran.” The two ex-soldiers locked eyes and nodded. Professional courtesy. “Did you miss me?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes behind the beekeeper’s veil. “Almost as much as I missed Anderson.” John coughs and elbows Sherlock in the ribs, gesturing with his chin towards the patrol car wailing along the gravel path and bearing the Lestrade, Donovan and Anderson contingent of the Yard. Sherlock swears. “Molly. _Go_.” He hands her the wooden box and she bolts towards the approaching Yarders.

“Follow her,” Mycroft orders the spooks, who lumber after the tiny pathologist.

“Excellent. A full house.” Jim grins upward at a rainbow hot-air balloon drifting south above the park. “Including my Ace in the hole.” He waves to the balloon; John catches a glimpse of dark hair above a white dress, a jewelled-braceleted arm languidly waving back. “Now,” he says, stroking his hand up over the eight-inch bulge and down into his pocket, “let’s lay _all_ our cards on the table.”

Jim pulls out a banana and, with an impish look of glee, begins to peel it.

Sherlock’s eyes widen in alarm. “No - don’t .... RUN!” he shouts, and lunges towards Jim, Seb, and the hive tree. Of course, John follows.

Molly races towards Greg with a captured bit of honeycomb in its wood-and-glass box. “We’ve got the Queen!” she squeaks breathlessly. “Take it to the lab! NOW!” Greg bellows, taking the box and shoving it towards Anderson. Donovan takes a deep breath, intending to argue, but....

No longer mollified by the smoke and enraged by the scent of banana mimicking their attack pheromone, the bees begin to swarm. The air turns ochre with dislodged pollen.

[](http://www.flickr.com/photos/58298637@N06/7933648060/)

For a suspended moment, everyone simply looks at one another.

[](http://www.flickr.com/photos/58298637@N06/7933648060/)

Anderson is the first to break. He whirls and runs, sprinting southwest across the park. Donovan, now holding her breath for dear life, snatches the bee box as it falls from Greg’s hands (which are now firmly kneading Molly’s breasts as she attempts to climb him) and runs towards the patrol car. Donovan hurls herself into the car and slams the door behind her, taking gasping breaths and cradling the Queen to her chest. _Great_ , she thinks, clambering into the driver’s seat and fumbling the keys out of her pocket. She switches off the AC and flips on the sirens, tearing along the Inner Circle roadway. “Come on, your Majesty.”

[](http://www.flickr.com/photos/58298637@N06/7933648060/)

Mycroft pushes Antemnestra against a tree and hikes her skirt up to her waist. Mycroft groans into her neck, reciting the dictionary beginning at the “Ms” to keep from spilling state secrets along with, eventually, semen. He pistons into her as she tweets multiple orgasms in 140 characters or less.

[](http://www.flickr.com/photos/58298637@N06/7933648060/)

Receiving the full brunt of the pollen and stings, Jim and Sherlock and John and Seb crash together in a surfeit of limbs and a volley of clothing. John and Jim wind up laid out on the grass before Sebastian and Sherlock, respectively, and with the remaining working portions of his brain John is glad that he’s been well lubed and already fucked open recently today. From the ease with which Sherlock is sliding into Moriarty, it seems as though Jim is in similar luck. John grabs Jim’s head and shoves his tongue into his mouth as Sebastian plunges into John’s arse.

“...teach you to get in the way of the boss’ plans, Captain....”

“...I’d rather be having Sherlock but far be it from me to disobey an order, Colonel....”

“...my one weakness is that I really do like to mix it up a bit. But did you notice?...”

“...trust you again to come between John and myself, and now I’m going to make sure you won’t. But what ... is it all ... in aid of?”

Sherlock’s babbling gives John an idea. John begins to stroke Jim’s cock and then squeezes just below the head, hard. “Mr Moriarty, I am having an unusual day. And I suspect you’re behind it. Now, I’m not going to let you come until you start telling us what the _hell is going on_!”

“Good, John!” pants Sherlock, deliberately avoiding Moriarty’s prostate.

[](http://www.flickr.com/photos/58298637@N06/7933648060/)

Mycroft’s goons, sixteen-year partners who have seen it all together and lived to tell the tale, are lost in each other and have rolled down the slight incline and into Boating Lake with a mild splash.

[](http://www.flickr.com/photos/58298637@N06/7933648060/)

Molly shoves Greg onto his back and sinks onto his straining hardness. “Oh Greg... ever since Christmas... you’ve been so patient, haven’t you,” she coos, as she begins to undulate. “More than you could ever know,” he gasps, and then flips them over.

[](http://www.flickr.com/photos/58298637@N06/7933648060/)

Moriarty’s grin is beginning to look a little strained. John, ever ambidextrous, pinches Jim’s nipples and glans simultaneously, while Sherlock times his thrusts to bring Jim as close to the edge as possible. “Why. Are. You. Doing. This!” Sherlock grunts.

Moriarty pouts. “Because it’s fun, dearest, and because I fucking _can_.” He moans and wriggles. “Oh, doctor, just like that.” Noticing the longing in the eyes of the blond man moving in and above him, John changes tactics, pulling away from Moriarty to turn his attention to Seb. Sherlock immediately notes the glint of jealousy darkening Jim’s eyes as John snogs the hell out of the Colonel and withdraws to follow his moral compass, which is always pointing due John. He insinuates himself between them to swallow John’s neglected cock to the root, humming contentedly as he wraps his arms around the waists of both soldiers.

Moriarty, left alone and squirming, pulls up handfuls of grass and kicks his feet in frustrated rage. “Seb! Get over here! I’m lonely and I need fucking!”

“Bit busy right now, boss,” Seb says apologetically, as John claims his mouth again in a hungry kiss. Seb melts into it, feeling wanted for the first time in ages.

[](http://www.flickr.com/photos/58298637@N06/7933648060/)

The sounds of an entire park full of people climaxing are almost drowned out by the buzzing of the bees. Almost.

[](http://www.flickr.com/photos/58298637@N06/7933648060/)

Dodging through traffic on Marylebone Road, Anderson jogs, panting, towards the Natural History Museum. Today, that slutty triceratops in the Blue Zone is _his_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bananas and bee swarms is a [real thing](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pheromone_%28honey_bee%29#Alarm_pheromone). Don't eat bananas or pears around hives, kids.


End file.
